Many it fupports amaz'd,
Yet, to view corruption ftride
Near the mighty Manfion's fide.
Foremost mid the patriot throng
Leinster's Duke now claims the fong,
The Fitzgerald's noble race,
All befriend their native place;
Great does Conolly redeem,
What of yore did opp'fite feem,
Stewart, Corty, Rowley ftand,
Firm protectors of the land;
Curran, Forbes, Smith, O'Neil,
Vindicate lerne's weal.
The Montgomery's all agree,
That Hibernia's ifle is free;
Unbrib'd Sharman and colleague
Join the independent league.
Many more not lefs in zeal,
Blaze with love of country's weal.
Tolerating Bristol warm,
Urges rancour to dilarm,
Recommends to break the chain,
That long bound lerne's plain,
So that prejudice no more,
May rebound within our shore.
Charlemont, O! could my train,
Waft thee yet more high in fame,
Glad I'd twine the votive lay,
And thy steady worth difplay:
Irifh armies thy command
Own implicit thro' the land,
Armies who in Erin's caufe,
Stood defender of her laws;
Armies who at freedom's call,

it off dire oppreffion's thrall,
Armies who by patriots led,
Freedom gain'd while nations bled.
Eft when injur'd with'd to gain,
Defolation mark'd the plain;
Neighing feeds and glitt'ring arms,
Plumed troops that fpread alaims,
Waving banners, cannons roar,
Laying nations deep with gore;
Rapine, horror and difmay,
Only mark'd the victor's way.
But far different in mind,
Were our armed hos enclin'd
For tho' the celestial maid,
Fortitude did ranks pervade,
Moderation was the zest,
Actuating ev'ry breast,

Volunteers thy glorious name,
Shall tranfmitted be to fame;
Sons fhall hear their father's tale,
And potterity entail;
Lifping infants hall unfold,
Wonders wrought in days of old;
Fature poets hall rehearse,
Ev'ry deed in nervous verle,

And with pride fhali mention ftill,
Tarra and Dungannon-hill.
Celbridge.

The rapid moments fly;

'Tis folly to repine at fate,
No ftudy can prolong the date,
That Heav'n is pleas'd to give:
Death unrelenting sweeps away,
No pray'r th' impending ftroke can stay,
Or gain a fhort reprieve.

Yet though in vain is ev'ry art,

To curb the wafting tyrant's pow'r; Grief tharper whets his fatal dart, And fpeeds the dread, the final hour. Then fill your glafs, and banith care; Amidst the young, the sprightly fair, Your happy hours employ: And fondly woo the tender blifs, The clofe embrace, the fervid kiss, And fweet, extatick joy.

Sonnet 1.

W. P. C.

Amidft the waving harveft field,
Some chance a burning spark convey'd;
Yet while a calm the breezes ftill`d,
The dark'ning fervours swift decay'd.
But foon the murm'ring winds arife,
Again the red'ning ember gleams;
Around the fierce destruction flies,

And wraps the fmoaking vale in flames.
So when, at first, my pensive breast,
In fweet affection fondly glow'd ;
Defpair the gen'rous flame oppreft,
My tears in lonely filence flow`d.

Now, fann'd by Laura's tender fighs,

The mighty paffion fcorns controui; New fury catches from her eyes, Confumes my frame, and fires my foul. W. P. C

Sonnet 26.

TOO long I woo'd a maid's confent,
With ling'ring timid circumfpection:
In love our fears too oft prevent,
The sweetest proof of kind affection,
Hail, Cupid, hail!-In ev'ry figh,
She breathes a kind-a tender meaning:
I read a language in her eye,

Beyond her fault'ring tongue's explaining.
In bloom of youth, and beauty dreft,
The glowing off pring of her graces;
With honied lip, and panting breast,
O yield her to my fond embraces!

By waning Luna's trembling ray,,
Through jealous fpies, I fly to meet ber :
The fharper dangers bar my way,
Our flol'a blif's fhall prove the fweeter.
W. P. C.

Sonnet 3d.

N

Winter: An Ode.

O more Aurora opes the morn,

And fragrance sheds throughout the sky; But Horror waits the glimm'ring dawn, And breaks upon th' unwilling eye. No fmiling flowers, of various hues,

Start forth to charm the longing fight;
Nor cluster'd fruit, all-blooming, fues
The hand to pluck, or tafte delight.

The verdant paths, which late were crown'd
With role-lip'd joy, and giddy mirth;
No more with Tweets profute abound,

Nor give to heart-felt rapture birth.
The shrivell'd grape, from wither'd vine,
Drops on the earth, and there decays;
The role reclines its head fupine,
As if to fhun Reflection's gaze.
No feather'd fongfters, in the grove,
Enraptur'd pour the choral train;
Thro' flow'ry vales no more I rove,
Where Pleasure led the blithiome train.
The ling'ring hours creep flowly on,

And darkness spreads her gloom around;
Nor can thy potent beams, O Sun!

With golden ftreaks adorn the ground. I figh to view yon naked field,

The leafless trees, the frozen stream: Where pleature late fuch blifs could yield, The fource of many a glowing theme! Where, now, are all our spangled views?

Ah, Summer! whither art thou flown? Where, now, are all thy honied dews,

And transports which thou call'ft thy own?

No vivid colours paint the plain,

No foaring laks now cleave the sky; The lilies droop, furcharg'd with rain,

And with ring fweets together die. But, hark!-the diftant thunder roark, Dread lightnings glare before my fight; From heaven's high arch a deluge pours,

The chearless day's ufurp'd by night. Loud howls the wind with chilling blasts; Haite, quick! let's feck the fparkling fire: And there, e'en though the tempeft last, May blish the jovial heart imipirų

Let Wit and Mirth their tales rehearse, While Bacchus crowns the feftive board; Whose praise fhall fill the grateful verfe,

As he pours forth his juicy hoard. But, foft! grave Reafon now intrudes, With all her monitory train;

And her fage voice foon quells the feuds, Which late opprefs'd my clouded brain.

• Vain Man! when, in Old Age's form, The Winter of thy life appears;

• Will Wit or Mirth avert the storm,

653

Restore thy youth, or eafe thy fears? Ah! wafte not then, the paffing hour, For hours on wings unfeen glide by; Few are the moments in thy pow'r; Lo! Winter comes-and thou muft die! An Epigram.

AID Sue to Will, the other day,
With countenance caft down-
I have not now-tho' once fo gay-
A Will to call my own!'

Laft night you vow'd,' faid Will to Sue,
When all was dark and still,

As ng as I prov'd kind and true,
I was your own dear WILL."

The Country Clergyman.

In Imitation of Dr. Goldsmith. [EAR yonder gate, the entrance to a wood, The village preacher's modeft manfios ftood.

NE

A man he was" who own'd religion's fway;
Unlike the paftors of the prefent day.
No worldly gain was he e'er taught to prize;
His motive virtue, and his aim the skies.
With doctrines found his audience' fouls he

reach'd;

"And, ftrange to tell, he practis'd what he preach'd."

When the poor beggar for affistance pray'd,
His friendly arm their wretched wanderings taid.
No fuppliant's pray'r e'er pafs'd unheeded by;
Tear aniwer'd tear, and figh fucceeded sigh.
Altho' no lover of the trolling race,

As pity call'd he heard each dubious cafe;
If falle difmits'd them from his grateful fare,
Since Milery only gain'd admittance there.
But if their story, told devoid of art,
Without a colouring reach'd the tender heart,
Then with what love, what eagerness, what
zeal,

He ftrove their forrows, sicknesses to heal,
Declar'd the means to bear affliction's rod,
And taught fubjection to the will of God.
Whene'er his parish from their duty fwe v'd,
Their paffions, vices, inclinations ferv'd,
He with a care paternal urg'd reclaim,
In just proportion to his generous aim;
Argued rom Reaton's, then from Scripture's
laws;

A great defender of a greater chufe!
When ficknets rag'd, from door to door he went,
His aid to all with equal pleafure lent:
With love benign adminifter'd relief,
And truly joy'd to mitigate their "grief.
As to thele duties, fo to others true,-
every action like the notic'd few,

F

Free from ambition, envy, pride, or ftrife,
He pa 'd in folitude-a godly life:
Till Death approaching led his foul away
From dreary regions-to eternal day.

A

The Parrot, the Cat, and the Spaniel

PARROT in St. James's Square, Of upftart pride and haughty air, Concluded all, but parrot kind, Mean vulgar fools, of low-life mind. From rifing morn till eve fhe'd prate, And with a ferious look debate; Talk of the court, and Mr. Pitt, Whiltt all around applaud her wit: Sometimes, to prove herself a scholar, And make the gentry much extol her, In Spanish and in French fhe'd fpeak; Then in Italian, Dutch, and Greek. At other times, to feem ftill greater, Would damn the steward, curfe the waiter, Infult the butler, fcold the cook, And give the page a haughty look; Then blefs her miftrels and her master, For none in policy furpats'd her. Throughout the year, at noon, and night, Her beft acquaintance fhe'd invite, To liften to fome favourite fong, Expecting praife from all the throng; If any modest friends Poll knew, Flatter'd her lefs than the thought due, Nothing could lave them from difgrace, Except retreating from the place.

By chance one morn as Phoebus rofe, And Mifs retir'd from found repofe, Sweet Morpheus, god of airy dreams, Entranc'd a thrush in rapt'rous themes. Poll blefs'd herfe.f, and grin'd with spite, Then ik p'd about with much delight. She long had made the fongfter hate her, And woke her with this rancorous fatire: "Rife, rife, thou idle flothful drone, So great a fluggard ne'er was known; Behold the fun's returning light, And do not fleep both day and night." Her ftunning accents rous'd a Cat, Who on the window Inoring fat. Pufs flar'd around with glaring eyes, Whilit Poll enjoy'd her vaft fu pife, "Comment vous portez vous? to-day You feem, my friend, in fearch of prey, Sach thug, fuch watery chops alarm; Thole grinding teeth foretell tome harm: You will not pick my bones, I hope, And hang a month on yonder rope. Perhaps on matter jay you'll featt, Or lady thruth, you ravenous beast. Fly hence, and hide that lavage face, Voracious brute, of mouter race! And know we birds for you're too good, A rat's a caterwauler's food

Pufs rail'd at this infulting speech, And as Poll's cage was now in reach, She burft the door with violent wrath, Her mouth distorted, ftream'd with froth; Jutreaties, p ay'rs, nor fhrieks avail'd, The toe with teeth and claw affail'd. Poll's crie at length a Spaniel brought, Whole kind protection the betought. Soon as he fav'd the mingl'd prey, Jowler enquir'd from whence the fray.

The groaning bird, with furious rage,
Declar'd the Cat broke thro' her cage,
Swearing the jeer'd her base pretence,
As if a Parrot wanted fenfe!
Then fiercely ftrove with all her might
To rend her limbs, and kill her quite.
Puis pleaded Poll's great provocation,
And fwore 'twas true by all the nation,
And fince, he knew, fhe would not lye,
Although extremely arch and fly,
Jowler believ'd her protestation,
To the poor parrot's great vexation,
Whom, while her fate he did bemoan,
He thus addrefs'd in angry tone;
"What arrogance, thou haughty knave,
What upstart pride, thus to behave!
How often have I fav'd thy life
When thy imprudence caus'd the strife?
I've took thee from the monkey twice,
And from the ape preferv'd thee thrice;
But learn, if evermore I hear
That thou wilt dare to domineer
Over fuperior-mind me well,
Thy enemy I'll not repel.
Defervingly thou shalt expire;
Thy death, all juftly, now require.
What! doft thou hope renown to gain,
By ways, exalted fouls difdain?
Honour by virtue is acquir'd,
And virtuous acts by all admir'd.
If all around, like thee, could fpeak
In French, Italian, and in Greek,
And all our manners were polite,
In a depraved courtier's fight;
Would that procure immortal fame,
And make all celebrate our name?
Would it improve our inward peace,
Or univerfal blifs increase?

From hence, would life's enjoyments now
With every plea fure known below?
No! blifs would fly, with empty praise,
And felf-conceit would curfe our days.
Famine would read throughout the place,
And death confume all mortal race.
For know, the num'rous fons of pride,
Though fuch as me they all deride,
With truth and justice can't deny,
That we their various wants fupply.
"Tis plain, that thro' our friendly aid,
They're now in pompous robes array'd,
Can ev'ry day on turtles dine,
And feast on chocolate, cake, and wine;
Admir'd by all, by all rever'd,
And with respect and reverence heard.
Did we, like them, all domineer,
And do no good from year to year,

They foon would drop, and lose their fame,
Yea live and die in want and shame.
We're their fupport, 't must be confeft,
And, confequently, they our peft.
O! gracious heav'n, reftrain their pride,
And O, vouchlafe to be their guide!
Make them fupport fome ufefui station,
And thrive to cafe the burthen'd nation.
Virtue will then thro' life impart
Such feelings as retine the heart;
Feelings like mine, ferene and fweet,
With mildeft, pure joys, replete ;
Which from approving confcience flow,
And oply confcience can bellow.

FOREIG